gave them a wide berth.
She circled the room, then stopped and helped herself to a bottle of Stella Artois out of the ice chest next to the buffet table.
She checked out the spread. There was no deep-dish pepperoni in sight. Instead, all the pizzas were gourmet, each one presented with its own tent card. There was white pizza topped with thick slices of aged mozzarella, spinach pizza drizzled in olive oil and dotted with feta cheese crumbles, barbecue Thai chicken pizza with peanut sauce, and the one she was most curious about—duck à l’orange with slices of grilled sugared Valencia oranges on the side. There was even a breakfast pizza topped with bacon and a fried egg. It was appropriately titled Sunny Side Up. Some of the crusts were paper-thin, others thick and substantial. All looked handmade.
Rachel was tempted to grab a plate and create her own sampler platter, helping herself to a small slice of each variety, but she wanted to find Griffin first—and get rid of one of the bottles in her hand.
There were four penthouses in the building, one facing in each direction. Griffin’s faced west, affording her what must have been a spectacular view at sunset. Her apartment was huge. Tasteful decorations made it seem less like a showroom and more like a living space. Black-framed photographs of California landmarks adorned the walls. The Golden Gate Bridge greeted visitors in the foyer. The iconic Hollywood sign rose above the stone fireplace in the living room. Pumped-up bodybuilders on Venice Beach pointed the way to the guest bathroom. A stunning shot of an overhead view of the curvy Pacific Coast Highway dominated the master bedroom.
Rachel examined a photo of Fisherman’s Wharf on the wall outside the den/home office. Like the others, it was signed by Madeleine Sutton.
Is she a relative?
Rachel pulled out her phone and quickly Googled Madeleine Sutton. She clicked on the link to the artist’s official website and navigated to the biographical information section. Madeleine was not simply a relative; she was Griffin’s mother. Her smile lit up the home page, her gently-lined face a stunning example of a life well-lived. Madeleine was an incredible beauty, and a dead ringer for her only daughter.
When she put her phone away, Rachel spotted Griffin coming out of the kitchen. A pizza in each hand, Griffin slowly made her way through the crowd.
“Hot stuff. Behind you,” she called out, evidently forgetting she wasn’t at work.
She was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron, which would have seemed tongue-in-cheek even if she didn’t have a sprig of mistletoe dangling from a silver halo above her head. The accessory made the message on her apron seem like more of a command than a suggestion. Just about everyone she passed followed her unspoken order. Most aimed for her mouth; she offered her cheek instead. The busses made her trip from the kitchen to the dining room last a lot longer than it should.
She placed the new additions— quattro formaggi and rustic vegetable—on the buffet table and turned around. She spotted Rachel as she pulled off her oversized potholders. The one on her left hand looked like Kermit the Frog, the one on her right Oscar the Grouch. Had she taken Colleen’s suggestion to heart? Was she saving her Christmas gifts for role play? Rachel’s breath quickened at the thought.
Griffin glanced in her direction and indicated she’d be with her as soon as she could. An attractive woman laid a hand on Griffin’s arm, demanding her attention. The woman’s hair was as black as a raven’s wing. Her piercing eyes were almost the same shade. Her olive skin hinted at Mediterranean roots. Rachel recognized her immediately. Aggie Anderson.
Griffin’s face lit up. She gave Aggie a brief kiss and a warm hug.
Rachel remembered the story her mother had told her on Christmas Eve about Griffin’s recent visit to the Today show and Aggie’s romantic overtures during her presentation. She wondered if
She circled the room, then stopped and helped herself to a bottle of Stella Artois out of the ice chest next to the buffet table.
She checked out the spread. There was no deep-dish pepperoni in sight. Instead, all the pizzas were gourmet, each one presented with its own tent card. There was white pizza topped with thick slices of aged mozzarella, spinach pizza drizzled in olive oil and dotted with feta cheese crumbles, barbecue Thai chicken pizza with peanut sauce, and the one she was most curious about—duck à l’orange with slices of grilled sugared Valencia oranges on the side. There was even a breakfast pizza topped with bacon and a fried egg. It was appropriately titled Sunny Side Up. Some of the crusts were paper-thin, others thick and substantial. All looked handmade.
Rachel was tempted to grab a plate and create her own sampler platter, helping herself to a small slice of each variety, but she wanted to find Griffin first—and get rid of one of the bottles in her hand.
There were four penthouses in the building, one facing in each direction. Griffin’s faced west, affording her what must have been a spectacular view at sunset. Her apartment was huge. Tasteful decorations made it seem less like a showroom and more like a living space. Black-framed photographs of California landmarks adorned the walls. The Golden Gate Bridge greeted visitors in the foyer. The iconic Hollywood sign rose above the stone fireplace in the living room. Pumped-up bodybuilders on Venice Beach pointed the way to the guest bathroom. A stunning shot of an overhead view of the curvy Pacific Coast Highway dominated the master bedroom.
Rachel examined a photo of Fisherman’s Wharf on the wall outside the den/home office. Like the others, it was signed by Madeleine Sutton.
Is she a relative?
Rachel pulled out her phone and quickly Googled Madeleine Sutton. She clicked on the link to the artist’s official website and navigated to the biographical information section. Madeleine was not simply a relative; she was Griffin’s mother. Her smile lit up the home page, her gently-lined face a stunning example of a life well-lived. Madeleine was an incredible beauty, and a dead ringer for her only daughter.
When she put her phone away, Rachel spotted Griffin coming out of the kitchen. A pizza in each hand, Griffin slowly made her way through the crowd.
“Hot stuff. Behind you,” she called out, evidently forgetting she wasn’t at work.
She was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron, which would have seemed tongue-in-cheek even if she didn’t have a sprig of mistletoe dangling from a silver halo above her head. The accessory made the message on her apron seem like more of a command than a suggestion. Just about everyone she passed followed her unspoken order. Most aimed for her mouth; she offered her cheek instead. The busses made her trip from the kitchen to the dining room last a lot longer than it should.
She placed the new additions— quattro formaggi and rustic vegetable—on the buffet table and turned around. She spotted Rachel as she pulled off her oversized potholders. The one on her left hand looked like Kermit the Frog, the one on her right Oscar the Grouch. Had she taken Colleen’s suggestion to heart? Was she saving her Christmas gifts for role play? Rachel’s breath quickened at the thought.
Griffin glanced in her direction and indicated she’d be with her as soon as she could. An attractive woman laid a hand on Griffin’s arm, demanding her attention. The woman’s hair was as black as a raven’s wing. Her piercing eyes were almost the same shade. Her olive skin hinted at Mediterranean roots. Rachel recognized her immediately. Aggie Anderson.
Griffin’s face lit up. She gave Aggie a brief kiss and a warm hug.
Rachel remembered the story her mother had told her on Christmas Eve about Griffin’s recent visit to the Today show and Aggie’s romantic overtures during her presentation. She wondered if
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